The following day, at noon.
The New World.
The sun hung high, and clusters of white clouds drifted lazily above the sea. However, the moment these clouds moved over a certain small island, they were instantly shredded by something invisible, vanishing without a trace. It wasn't just the clouds; even the sea breeze approaching the island was sliced and dissipated.
If an expert were to approach this island, they would discover with horror that the entire landmass was saturated with minute, lingering sword ki.
At the center of the island, two handsome, middle-aged men in their late thirties or early forties stood facing each other, their expressions grim. Their disheveled clothes were marked with numerous clean cuts, looking somewhat tattered. But the terrain around them... "tattered" didn't even begin to describe it.
Aside from the small patches of ground beneath their feet, the land for several kilometers in every direction was crisscrossed with deep, jagged ravines. Every tree, flower, and blade of grass—even the solid rock—had been carved into countless fragments. Within this radius, every inch of space was occupied by countless tiny, sharp slivers of sword ki that refused to dissipate, locked in a mutual stalemate. If an animal were to wander into this zone, it would be instantly minced into nothingness.
Anyone with a modicum of knowledge would recognize these two men instantly.
One wore simple clothes and a black cape over his shoulders, holding a western-style saber in his only remaining hand. He possessed a striking mane of medium-length red hair and three fierce scars over his left eye. This was one of the four Sea Emperors (Yonko) ruling the New World—the man the World Government feared deeply: "Red-Haired" Shanks!
Standing opposite him, gripping a massive black blade with eyes that struck terror into the soul, was one of the Seven Warlords of the Sea and the holder of the title of the World's Greatest Swordsman: Dracule "Hawkeye" Mihawk!
These two peak swordsmen had just finished a six-hour-long world-shaking duel on this nameless volcanic island! A collision of the highest level of swordsmanship!
The last time these two had dueled was eight or nine years ago. Since Shanks returned from the East Blue having lost an arm, they hadn't fought. Mihawk's reason had been: "I have no interest in settling things with a man who lost his arm."
But on this day, Mihawk had actively sought out Shanks. What followed was a duel more intense than their encounters of old—a clash of peak swordsmanship that surpassed anything they had done before.
After an indefinite stalemate, the previously stern Shanks suddenly relaxed. He unhurriedly sheathed his famous blade, Gryphon, and waved his hand. "No more, no more. We could fight forever and never find a winner."
A look of confusion crossed his face as he added curiously, "Mihawk, did you reach some sort of enlightenment recently? Your swordsmanship and intent have suddenly become so much stronger. I was almost not your match."
They had fought for six hours straight. While Mihawk occasionally gained the upper hand through his superior technique, Shanks would quickly use his explosive power to suppress him back. In the end, this peak duel had once again resulted in a draw.
"Hahahaha! Boss, why did you only last half a day? You used to be able to fight Hawkeye for an entire day!" "Boss, you're not actually getting old, are you? Should I go find some medicine to boost your stamina?" "What do you mean old? The Boss just doesn't eat enough. Here, Boss, I've been saving this giant chicken leg—take a bite!"
Led by the First Mate, Benn Beckman, the elite officers of the Red-Haired Pirates walked over, laughing. There wasn't a hint of formal respect in their tone; instead, they teased their captain mercilessly. Lucky Roux even went as far as actually tossing a fragrant chicken leg at Shanks.
"Hahaha! I really can't compare to the old days."
Shanks was clearly used to the banter. He laughed, scratched the back of his head, and took a bottle of liquor from Beckman, gulping it down greedily. After draining half the bottle in one breath, he let out a satisfied sigh and tossed the remaining half to Mihawk.
Mihawk sheathed his black blade, Yoru, and caught the bottle without hesitation, taking a long, crisp drink. However, Mihawk's manner of drinking was far more elegant than Shanks', though his tolerance was certainly no match for the Emperor's.
"Hey! Mihawk!" Shanks shouted, throwing an arm unceremoniously over Mihawk's shoulder after the latter set down the bottle. "Seriously, what did you realize lately? Your swordsmanship has taken a massive leap. I was almost suppressed by you just now!"
Mihawk, usually the epitome of the cold, aloof gentleman, remained stern-faced under Shanks' boisterous embrace, but he didn't struggle. He seemed completely accustomed to Shanks' behavior.
Before Mihawk could answer, Shanks shouted to his crew: "Boys! To celebrate Mihawk's growth in swordsmanship, how about we throw a banquet?!"
"Haha! Boss, we've been waiting for you to say that!" "Do you even have to ask? I've already set it up!" "Yo-ho-ho! Party time!" "Hahaha, looks like we're eating well again!"
The crew laughed even louder than their captain. As the pirates swarmed toward the shore, Shanks hung back slightly, still holding Mihawk's shoulder, and whispered: "Mihawk, be honest. Did you have some incredible encounter? Facing your offensive just now... the pressure was immense."
Shanks was genuinely curious. In his mind, Mihawk's swordsmanship had reached its zenith over a decade ago. He had assumed the man could no longer improve, yet this time, it was as if Mihawk had suddenly seen the light. During the duel, Shanks had suffered quite a few minor setbacks under Mihawk's piercing strikes.
Mihawk nodded solemnly. "Yes. Not long ago, in the East Blue, I met an old man. He gave me an incredible inspiration."